Finger-Shaped
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: Derek's grip has left bruises on her arms. They bloom on her skin, purple and angry and distinctly finger-shaped. (Allison/Derek. Coda to 3x02 Chaos Rising.)


**Finger-Shaped**  
by Sandrine Shaw

Derek's grip has left bruises on her arms. They bloom on her skin, purple and angry and distinctly finger-shaped. She doesn't notice until she's at home, shedding her clothes and stepping into the shower to wash away all the sweat and the dirt and the tears.

Afterwards, she stands and looks at herself in the mirror, watches her image looking back, pale and tired. She looks more clean than she feels, the dark marks on her upper arms the only visible indication that something happened today. The bruise the girl left on her wrist has all but faded, but Derek's fingerprints stand out against her skin, and before she can stop herself, she raises one of her hands towards them and digs her fingers into the same spot where he held her, wincing at the echo of pain it gives her.

It's funny, because she didn't even realize how firmly he was holding her at the time. She remembers how he rushed out of the vault, grabbing her, shaking her, Scott's _don't touch her_. But it seemed so easy to pull away from Derek and push him off. Altogether too easy, she thinks now, especially if he held her tightly enough to bruise her.

She's wearing shirts with sleeves for the next few days, even though it's too warm for them. If her father saw the marks, he'd ask question she doesn't want to answer. If Scott saw them, he'd _know_. She doesn't know which would be worse, her father's suspicion or Scott's concern, but right now she doesn't want to see either of them get angry and protective on her behalf. She's sick of being coddled and sheltered all the time; it's hurting more than it helps, and she wishes they'd see that.

Once in a while, her fingers sneak underneath the sleeves of her shirt and press in, again and again. At first with idle curiosity and later, after a day or two, it becomes a habit until she's barely even aware that she's doing it.

It's four days until she sees Derek again.

They're at his loft, her and Lydia and Scott and Isaac and Stiles, discussing how to track down Boyd and the girl, trying to come up with a plan, anything at all. Instead, they just bicker and snark at each other, little digs that get more abrasive and aggressive as they grow more frustrated with their lack of progress.

It's a downward spiral, and Allison's hands, unbidden, clamp down on the old bruises. They're hidden away under two layers of clothing, but she knows that they're yellowish and faded by now. They still hurts when she pokes at them, though, dull pain that spreads over her like a blanket, oddly comforting.

She closes her eyes and concentrates on it, drowning out the others' squabbling in the background.

When she looks up again, Derek's eyes are on her and she swears she can see them flaring red for a moment. He's watching her with a frown on his face. So his Scott, features scrunched up in worry, instantly at her side. "Are you okay?"

"Sure," she says. She flashes a quick, fake smile, and wonders if her heartbeat tells him that she's lying.

Later, when they're splitting after coming up with a half-baked, reckless plan that will probably end with someone getting hurt, Derek calls her back.

He pushes the cardigan off her shoulders and pulls her sleeve up before she has a chance to protest. There's a part of her that wants to twist away from him, irrationally unwilling to let anyone else see the remains of the bruises on her skin because they're hers and hers alone. (Except that's not true. He's the one who left them in the first place, so they're his, too.)

He looks stricken when he spots them. "I –" he begins, and she can hear the apology forming before he says it. Doesn't want to listen to the actual words.

"Don't," she says sharply. What she means is _don't apologize for_ this, _of all things_, but she knows that what he will hear is _don't bother apologizing, I won't accept it_.

Either way, he falls silent, but when he reaches out and his fingertips ghost over the marks, his touch feels like a silent _I'm sorry_, feather-light, raising goose-bumps on her skin. More than anything, it makes her crave a different kind of touch.

When Allison shivers in response, he moves to pull his hand away, but she's quicker, fingers closing around his wrist, as tightly as she can. She knows she can't hope to leave any bruises of her own; her hunter training may have made her strong for a teenage girl, but he has werewolf healing powers on his side and she needs more than her bare hands to leave a mark. It's not about that. What she's trying to do is send a message, make him _understand_.

And maybe he does, because there's a moment when he looks down at where her hand is clamped around his wrist, then back up at her, and the confusion in his eyes gives way to anger first and then to something else – a dark, ominous intensity that chills her as much as it excites her, resonating with the darkness inside of her.

At last, Derek's fingers are back around her arms, digging into the very same spots where the old bruises have been fading away, firm and unrelenting, and Allison sways against him. His grip tightens.

This time, she doesn't pull away.

End


End file.
